THE NEW YORKER "N ow, you're mls judging the girl there, Nora," Joan says earnestly. "You are, really! It's not the same thing \vhen )ou never have the chance of get- ting attached to a child And when there isn't a blessed thing you can do ahout it, I don't honestly helieve that there's any moral responsibility." "Responsibility? " Nora says, getting up. "\Vho's talkIng about responsibil- ity? I'd live in dread of my own shadow for the rest of my days. 1 wouldn't be able to see a barefooted kid in the street without getting sick. Every knock that came to the door, I'd be in dread to open it Every hody that was picked out of the river, I'd fee] it was mv kid, and I was the one to blame. For God's sake, don't talk to me! " "There's another cup of tea left, Nora," Joan says, a little too brightly. ""r ould you like It? " " I . J " N d n a mInute, oan, says ora, an goes out to the Ladies'. \Vhen she re- turns a few minutes later, she looks as though she had been crying. T u me it is a gl eat mystery, because no one speaks crossl) to her. I assume that, like my- self, she has a father who dnnks. " C RIPES, I'm sorry for poor May Jenkins," Joan begins on anoth- er da), after Nora has poured out the tea. That is her tIme for a new theme, when there is no serious danger uf in- terruption. "\Vho's she when she's at home?" N ora asks lightly. "Ma) J enkins? You'd hardly know her, Nora. She's from the South Side." "And what ails her now didn't ail her before?" asks Nora, who is full of local qUIpS and phrases. "Oh, the usual thing," says Joan with l shrug. "Phil Mack- en, her husband, is knocking round with the Archer girl, on the Wellington Road- the Yellow Peril." "Really, Joan," Marie says, "I don't know where you come across all those ex- d . I " traor Inary peop e. "I don't "ee what's su ex- traordinar} about that at all," Nora says. "People are ------... - I d ." a ways olng It. "And people are always getting terrible diseases, only we don't go out of our way to inquire," says Marie primly. "Really, there must be sometlllng wrong with a woman like that." "Like May, Marie? " Joan asks in mock surprise. "No, like that other creature-whatever you said her name was. " "Oh, I wouldn't say that at all, 1\ IT ." J " s Vl.ane, says oan. orne very respect- ahle people live on the Wellington RO.:td. And d lot of men find her at- tractive." "Then there must be something . h h " wrong WIt t e men. "Or the wife, why don't you say?" cries Nora. "Or the wife," l\IIarie agrees with perfect placidity. "She should be able to mind her own husband" "She'd want roller skates," says Joan, and again I hear the high nute of the violin, driving the trio onward. "No, Mane, girl," she says, resting her chIn on her hands, "you have to face the facts. A lot of women do get unattrac- tive after marriage. Of course, I'm not blamIng them. \V e' d be the same our- selves, with kids to mind and jobs to do. They can't waste time dancing and dolling themselves up like Maeve Arch- er, and if they did, their houses would soon show it. You see, It'S something we all have to be prepared for." "If 1 felt that way, Joan, I'd go into "'1\Jr . I a convent, Vl.ane says severe y. "But after all, Marie," says Joan, "what could you do? Suppose you were married tu Jim dnd a thing like that happened?" ",^That could I do?" Marie echoes, smiling at the thought of anything of the sort happening with Jim "\Vell, I suppose I could walk out of the house" " Ah M . " J , come now, arIe, oan says. "It's not as easy as all that. \Vhere would you walk to, in the first place?" "What's wrong with going home?" ",^.Tith d housefu] of kids?" says Joan. "Of course, I know your father 29 is very fond of you and aU the rest of it, but all the same, we have to be reason- able." "I could go somewhere else," says Marie. "After all, Jim would have to suppurt me-and the kids, as you say." "Of course he would. That's if you dIdn't mInd spendIng the rest of your days as a grass wIdow . You know, Marie, [ saw one or two women who did that, and it didn't look too promis- ing to me. No, in the wa) of husbands and father and so on, I don't think you can heat men. A dog won't do." "But do you medn you'd let him go on seeing' a filth) creature like that?" asks Marie. "Really, Joan, I don't think you can be serious." "Oh, I never said that," Joan says hastily. "I'm sure I'd make It pretty uncomfortable for him." "\Vhich mightn't be such a bad way of making the other woman more at- tractive," Nora says dryly. "Oh, we all know what Nora wuuld do," Joan retorts with affectionate mockery. "She'd SIt down and have a good cry. \V ouldn't you, love?" "I might," Nora replies doubtfully. "I'd sooner that than calling in the neighbors" "Oh, I admit you'd have to keep your dignity, Nord," Marie says, heing par- ticularly susceptible to any appeal to her ladyhood. "But surely someone would have to interfere." "I saw too much Interference, Ma- rie," Nora says grimly. "It's mad enough thinking you can spend your whole life with a man and still be in love with him, but 'tis dotty entirely if you imagine you can do it with half Cork acting as referee." "All the same, Nora," Joan says, in 1 - --- --- --- ( / -/ I / I ,Þ-" \J 1 '11 - ---' --- ----.. ---- ------. køJ/